


akrasia

by vounoura



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Experimental Style, Freeform, Gen, No Plot/Plotless, my DB and Serana are not good for each other lmao rip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 09:37:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12454596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vounoura/pseuds/vounoura
Summary: You are a forgotten woman (although you prefer the name Serana) and you know that, against your better judgement, you have chosen your death.





	akrasia

**Author's Note:**

> okay my DB is literally the worst person alive I have no idea why Serana sticks around with her honestly

She is named Hasani ( _Saarli_ , a voice whispers, but the noise is lost on the wind and you do not hear it) and you know this well, but you prefer to call her _pestilence_.

She is a plague - she (although perhaps a better description for one as twisted as _that_ is _it_ ) pulls into a quaint village by dusk and leaves behind only the silent ashes of the dishonoured dead by morn.

Immovable. Ever advancing, however slowly. The woman (the _thing_ , the **_thing_** , your mind screams, _it cannot be considered human_ ) is a piece of chaos pulled from its bonds, set free to walk and to conquer. A small god placed, forced, _molded_ into a mortal shell.

(It does not belong there. Some part of her always threatens to break free, and you fear to see the day it finally does.)

 _Unnatural. **Unwanted**_. She carries a legacy atop her back, one born of blood and duty. The world moves and bows at her command.

(But duty has never meant a single thing to her, has it? Once, tradition and duty, loyalty and family, meant something, something important, but the words speak of a time long lost and fade away into the ice and snow. You cannot understand what they say.

She does not ever tell you more than what she thinks you need to know, if even that. Usually it is nothing at all.)

Her eyes, burning with flame ( _you will not break me_ , they say, _I am the blade scheduled for your execution_ ) sing songs of victory, of stolen and shattered crowns. Something tells you to stare and you do, but another warning says that looking at that woman ( _the beast, a monster, an unnatural, unnatural **thing**_ ) for too long will be like staring into the sun.

You know that pain all too well.

( _Surrender_ , her very presence demands, and you do.

She breaks your spine in half as you kneel.)

Her lips are stained with blood, but so are yours, aren’t they? But it leaks between her teeth, out from her lips, from under her fingernails and dripping from her hands. She is stained with blood both mortal and divine, covered in it.

(Or is it poison? Perhaps they are one and the same. After all, her words (always spoken through a river of blood. You do not ever see regret) are poison enough.)

She will crush you beneath her, as she does all others, and you know this but you follow her anyway. You follow her footsteps after they’re long gone, follow the ash she leaves in her wake. You are drawn to this corruption, to this plague like someone who wishes to die.

( _I will remake her,_ you say, but you know this is a lie. That creature cannot be remade, and you fear it cannot even be killed.

Are you that desperate for companionship? Or are you fool enough to believe that there is a shred of light within her? You have always been known and derided as a foolish, _foolish_ optimist, and perhaps this time it will finally get you killed.)

 _She is the spitting image of my father_ , you think, _in all but appearance -_ you swear that even their shadows are one and the same, and now you cannot even look at her without flinching. There is not much you are sure of anymore, not with the passage of time, but you know that she is everything you hate, and although you hate your father (you love him, somewhere, but you don’t love what he’s become) for some reason you are masochistic enough to remain with this monster instead.

(Staying with your father would be less painful. But you stay with this woman anyway, despite every bone in your cold body telling you that _this is enough_.)

But you follow. You follow and you follow and you follow, and she does not care if you bleed for it. She wears a shattered crown made of bone and metal, and her knife is as cold as the slow, lingering death she will put you through.

And like a plague, with you behind her, she pulls into a village at dusk and leaves behind only the silent ashes of the dishonoured, forgotten dead by morn.


End file.
